Appearances
by lazaefair
Summary: Sort of an exploration of Claire before the fateful detention. Lots and lots of angst.


_Pre-detention for the Fab Five doesn't really get written a lot here, but that fact is apparently not bothering the plotbunnies residing in my head. And Claire seems to be the easiest character for me to write, and anyway, people's comments have set me to thinking after Diamond Earrings (thank you, MidnightBlue88). So, to sum up: this is yet more pre-detention Claire. Why did she react so strongly to Bender's not-so-subtle innuendo? Why didn't she like being called tease?_

_All standard disclaimers apply.  
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_In case you are wondering, this was written mostly in the wee hours of the morning. Onward with the incoherency!_

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It happens every day in the average high school, a thousand times over.

Boy meets girl. Boy talks to girl. Boy can't keep it in his pants. Girl can't keep the skirt pulled down. Boy hooks up with girl.

Heartbreak ensues.

Claire Standish had no intention of going past 'boy talks to girl.' Her physician father had made sure of that. Since she first hit puberty, it had been drilled into her head, repeatedly: disownment and worse awaited her down the road of teen pregnancy.

So, she never did go past talking.

Of course, that does depend on the definition of "talk."

"So then, _she_ slaps _him_ and tells him _fuck himself_ and then she storms out without even taking her _purse!_ My god, can you _believe_ she _actually_ left behind a _Louis Vuitton_ purse?" The speaker practically squeaked in outrage at this unforgivable offence.

Who the hell cares about a purse, Claire thought tiredly, but added her squeal of horror to the chorus anyway. Appearances had to be kept up, after all. To be honest, she was less interested in the purse, Louis Vuitton notwithstanding, and more interested in the couple and their lover's dispute that had set the Shermer High royalty abuzz.

Andy Clark and Jamie Lovelace had been the supreme reigning couple for the longest time, having managed to date more or less steadily since middle school, which would make it nearly three and a half years now. That was in itself a record, especially considering how much Andy had devoted himself to wrestling for the same amount of time. Nevertheless, Claire felt a curious sense of disappointment at the news of their explosive breakup. It had been long enough that she'd assumed the two would remain a pair forever and live happily ever after. But, it turned out, love wasn't enough.

Big surprise. The only real news was how long it had taken Andy and Jamie to part ways, especially when one considered the track record of every _other_ couple in their group. The next longest relationship was a mere six months and running, give or take a few weeks. In fact, that one was Claire, in a long and popularly assumed to be torrid affair with boyfriend Jonathan Brolin. Who was actually now (if gossip was honest, like _that_ was possible) embroiled in rumors of a separate, even more torrid affair with...Jamie Lovelace.

Well, gossip wasn't so honest anyway, and Claire told herself she didn't mind much. Though it hurt every time she saw the furtive whispers, the glances in her and Jonathan's direction. Claire was in truth a closet romantic, but carefully hid it—the vultures of Shermer High operated a ruthless rumor mill and any sign of weakness was considered fair game. If she voiced her disappointment over the Andy-Jamie breakup now, some of the other girls might take it that she—

"Good morning, Claire...Claire? Earth to Claire, come in, Claire..."

The deep, amused voice by her ear startled her considerably, and she nearly took Jonathan's face off when she whirled around with a surprised exclamation. His unexpected nearness sent her off-balance and she went tumbling against him, purse spilling to the ground and heels wobbling. Of all the things to be in fashion now, it had to be perpetually unstable heels...

"Whoa! Easy, easy, darling." Jonathan caught her easily (athletic, naturally), steadying her and smoothing her hair. Face safely buried in his chest, Claire smiled bitterly at the sight they must've made, even as she deliberately took longer than necessary to pull away. The picture of affectionate, tender, loving care, and she could just _see_ the other girls melting into little puddles. Not to mention the awkward cooing noises emanating from all around them. Torrid. Yeah.

Very jealousy-inducing. Which was partly the point, really. It was about the image and the status that the image brought. Because Jonathan was one of Shermer's It boys, no doubt about it. He was richer than Midas and twice as good-looking, probably. And he was dating Claire Standish, one of the school princesses. Come to think of it, wasn't _she_ the reigning princess, now that Jamie was no longer the consort of the king? From the speculative looks being pinged her way even now, it appeared that this was so. Well. Was joy in order?

"You all right, Claire?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry about it, I'm just so clumsy this morning." She had the routine down pat by now: blush, fidget, act like the sweet and awkwardly shy damsel in distress around her shining knight. In other words, _totally_ in love. Never mind his wandering hands.

"Hey, don't worry about it. I'll always catch you," he soothed, fine sweet words that turned every girl in the vicinity interesting shades of envy-green, but his hands were holding her too closely. She finally did pull away, then. Much too close. She fervently hoped that her face wasn't flushed too much, at least no more flushed than would be normal for taking an almost-fall and then being held in the arms of one of the finest catches to ever parade around Shermer High School.

Funny, how it was always at the surface of her mind to quickly remind her just how much of a stud he was, how popular he was, how damned _lucky_ she was to be dating Jonathan Brolin. Like she always had to remind herself why she'd been dating him in the first place.

And somehow, she had a niggling suspicion that she wasn't supposed to feel that way. Love wasn't supposed to be like that, _hell_, not even mere attraction was supposed to be so...cold.

"Love you too, babe."

Claire looked up, shaken by Jonathan's seeming response to her secret thoughts, but the teasing grin on his face reminded her that she wasn't responding, hadn't been for the last few minutes. She blushed and looked away while fumbling for some sort of throwaway response that didn't require too much thinking. If she avoided his eyes, maybe she could avoid the unmistakable _heat_ she'd started seeing there lately. And maybe if she avoided his eyes, he wouldn't be able to read her thoughts. He wouldn't realize that she saw and shrank away from the uncaring manner in which he eyed her low-cut blouse.

_Lucky. Lucky. I'm incredibly lucky. I am unbelievably lucky._

_I'm never wearing this blouse again._

"I...um. Yeah. Love you, Jonathan." She attempted a smile. Thanks to years of training by her perfectionist mother, she was reasonably sure she was successful.

"That's my girl. Listen, Claire..." and he took her by the arm and drew her away from everyone else, the way couples do. Her back was to the cool metal of the lockers, he was leaning over her, almost but not quite looming. Lost in their own private lovers' world, or so it probably seemed to the rest of the group.

"Yeah, Jonathan?" Funny, how he called her by any number of nicknames and pet names, but she'd never been able to bring herself to call him by anything but Jonathan. As if anything else was wrong, and...disrespectful?

"Love your blouse, by the way..." and he brushed an absent-minded finger down her neck, to trace over the delicate collarbone. Gently, but still. Too close. Too much for comfort. He was getting dangerously close to the point where the soft fabric dipped low and drew together, held together by flimsy mother-of-pearl buttons. She shivered.

"...but it's too thin for December. You ought to wear something warmer, love," he scolded. "Can't always be borrowing my letter jacket, you know?" He grinned again, and Claire wanted so much to believe he cared.

_You know why I wear clothes like this, Jonathan._ She looked at his lips, still unable to face his eyes. Didn't want to know where they were staring. Was it at the blouse again? At the slim skirt, outlining every curve of hip and leg? The tantalizing peeks of skin in between? _You know why Jackie paints her face so thickly she looks like a china doll. Why Annie wears hooker earrings and gets hauled into the vice principal's office every other week for revealing too much. Why Chelsea learned how to dance, even though she couldn't really afford it, and she hates dancing anyway, just to be able to sway gracefully. It's for you and every other smug bastard who struts around..._

Wait. Smug bastard? Jonathan wasn't a smug bastard. Claire stopped that line of thought. He wasn't. She didn't know where the spirit of bitterness was coming from. He wasn't. Girlfriends weren't allowed to think like that. He _wasn't_.

"Anyway," he was going on, apparently unconcerned at her lack of reply, "Stubby's having a party on the fifteenth. Planning anything then?"

"No. Well, at least..."

"Great! I'll pick you up at, what, eight?" His lips were smiling again, a smile that was the swoon-inducer of most girls at one time or another. She should have been melting, its sexiness turned onto _her_, the privileged one.

"Yeah. Yeah. Eight's okay."

"Nice. Wear this blouse. I like it," Jonathan repeated, still smiling. "And afterwards?"

He leaned forward. His hand traveled up her arm, and he leaned _forward_, until she thought he was going kiss her—in the hallway!—but he whispered into her ear instead. "Afterwards, there's going to be a little you and me time, all right?"

His voice seemed to have dropped an octave, or at least her hypersensitive ear was having trouble registering anything but a low, velvety buzz. Heavy with smoke and insinuation. And even overactive imagination couldn't mistake the hand at her waist, dragging in slow circles suggestive of so much more. She should have melted, should have weakened, should have buckled to the floor. Oh, God. Anything but swallowing nervously, eyes widening. "Jonathan..." and Claire couldn't help it, she unconsciously brought her hands up in a half-hearted defensive gesture, resting on his chest. Pushing away ever so slightly.

Her boyfriend pulled back in surprise. "Hey, easy, babe," he said, surprise coloring his tone, before it was replaced with an indulgent chuckle. "Well, what did you expect, Claire? Behaving the way you do and wearing," another brush of the wandering hand, "clothes like these?" He grinned, apparently to show that his words weren't meant to sting—much.

"Tease." And then he moved away, slinging his backpack on again and giving her a small salute and smile. "Until the _next time_, darling."

Claire Standish watched Jonathan Brolin stride away.

"Oh, _God_. He's so _sexy_. You are a lucky, lucky girl, Claire." The girls were standing around her again, also watching Jonathan with identical dreamy expressions. "Lucky."

"Yeah. Guess I am." She swallowed again, stomach roiling and skin still fluttering—with lust? Or was it disgust?

And she forced another near-perfect smile. Appearances, after all.


End file.
